My Husband Was Sleeping With His Secretary in the Back of His Car — I Found Her Lace Under the Seat and Said Nothing, Just Mailed It to Her Husband With Four Words, and Hours Later an Envelope Arrived at the Hospital That Exposed the Secret He’d Buried for Six Years

Because the oldest trick in the book, the one played on every betrayed wife since the beginning of time, is isolation — the affair thrives in secrecy, in each deceived party being kept apart from the others, in the wife believing she is the only one who has been made a fool of.

Mark and Brenda’s whole arrangement depended on Andrew and me never comparing notes, never discovering that we were two halves of the same lie.

And some instinct in me, standing in that garage, rebelled against that isolation before I had even reasoned my way to its usefulness.

I would not sit alone with this.

I would not be the last to know, cordoned off in my private humiliation while they carried on.

I would reach across the dark to the one other person being deceived, and I would break the secrecy the whole thing depended on, and in breaking it I would turn their greatest weapon — the keeping of us apart — into the instrument of their undoing.